


no greater gift

by vehlr, weatheredlaw



Series: logolepsy [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:20:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5947171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/pseuds/vehlr, https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh, <i>please</i>, enlighten me. What more could <i>possibly</i> go wrong?”</p><p>Varric realises, the moment he speaks these words, that he should have kept his damned mouth shut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no greater gift

**Author's Note:**

> as always, varric is v, cassandra is w.l. <3

 

The sun hangs low in the sky when Bran comes to Varric, hands wringing.

“There’s a slight… problem.”

If this wedding had a by-line, thinks Varric, that would have been it. Granted, many of the problems had been differences of opinion between Bran and him and Cassandra, but still it was something of a grievance. He looks up from his desk, considering the man.

“Of _course_ there is.” He sighs, running a hand over his face. “Just tell me, Bran.”

“The, ah… the cleric from Val Royeaux who was to conduct the ceremony? She… passed away, in the night.”

He straightens, brow furrowed. “Oh. That’s _awful_ news.”

“Yes, terribly sudden but without pain. She simply slept, but… that’s not… the _only_ problem…”

Varric looks up, pained. “Oh.”

Bran shifts slightly, swallowing. “The rings. We sent them for cleaning last week, and somehow they have been… misplaced. I have sent for the messengers responsible, to try and track down what might have become of them.”

“Ah.”

“And…”

Varric pinches the bridge of his nose. “ _Ah_.”

“And the dress we managed to convince Lady Cassandra to wear? The Lady Josephine brought it with her from Orlais last night, and this morning it had simply… disappeared.” Bran’s brow furrows. “Though I can take an educated guess as to what happened _there_.”

The laugh that leaves Varric’s mouth is twisted, bordering on hysterical. “Of course.” Cassandra had made a good show of liking it, but he had known she was not truly happy with the choices offered by Ruffles, and had only agreed to stop the incessant questioning.

“And, ah -”

“Oh, _please_ , enlighten me. What more could _possibly_ go wrong?”

Varric realises, the moment he speaks these words, that he should have kept his damned mouth shut.

“The Lady Cassandra is… missing.”

 _Oh_.

“She left to run an errand, _assured_ me she would not be long - I only mention it because I know you two had plans to dine with the Lady Josephine this evening and -”

“Bran, give me a moment?”

“Oh. Of course.”

Varric manages to wait until the doors are fully closed before slumping in the chair, head in his hands and a long groan escaping him. _Damnit all, Seeker!_

He knows, in his heart, that Cassandra would not do this to him. She would not leave him at this moment, would not place him second to another life - she had promised, and he did not doubt her for a second. She would come back, and they would be fine.

_Oh, Varric. My love. It means yes._

She would come back. She had to. She had _promised_.

_Meet me at the Chantry on the road out to Wildervale. I’ll be there. I just have to -_

No. She was _not_ Bianca. She _would_ come back. He pushes the memory away, taking a deep breath. Cassandra would come back, and she would have an apology and a story to tell, and he would kiss her senseless before she had chance to part with either.

Sitting up again, he clears his throat. There were other problems, other obstacles to overcome, and letting traitorous thought gnaw at his faith in her would not solve anything.

“Bran!”

The man re-enters, eyes cautious with concern. “Yes?”

“We need to find the rings. And… well, a new cleric, I suppose. The dress will turn up, hopefully still in one piece. I’ll entertain Ruffles tonight - I trust our chef has a suitably interesting menu that I don’t need to be on sparkling form. Perhaps that bard can be found again, she liked his performance last night.”

The man falters for a moment, unwilling to ask but needing to hear it. “And… the Lady Cassandra?”

Varric takes a deep breath. “My wife-to-be will be there when it counts. That much, I _do_ trust.”

 

* * *

 

He sleeps alone.

It is strange to do so, now. Of course, he was used to her absences - they both had duties, and she had never shirked hers - but without a proper goodbye it feels colder than it had any right to. He lies on his back, sheets pulled up over his chest, and stares into the darkness above him.

 _Cassandra_.

He had once complained that she had left him behind with nothing but a letter. It had nearly broken them - or perhaps, he thinks now, that had been an easy test and he had simply fallen. It was so easy to re-evaluate every trouble, every argument, every unsaid word. And still she had left, now with no note, no warning. She had not run off to save the world from a Qunari plot this time - or, he thinks with a sudden panic, she better not have done. She would not have left him behind for mortal peril, surely.

He swallows, rolling onto his side. It would do no good, and yet he could no sooner stop the thoughts than stop the sun from rising.

She was coming back. Of _course_ she was coming back. She had said _yes_.

She wore the ring. In public.

He closes his eyes.

She _was_ coming back.

 

* * *

 

The city keeps him busy, and if Bran is concerned he hides it behind the usual banter they share regarding Varric’s usual aversion to paperwork.

“Another set of invoices signed? Careful, I may swoon.”

“I have that effect on most people, Bran.”

“Only in your stories, ser.” He smiles anyway. “Would you like some good news?”

Varric leans back in his chair, massaging his knuckles. “There’s good news?”

“The rings have been found.”

“That’s fucking _excellent_ news.”

“Quite.” The man rifles through the documents, checking them briefly. “I’ve sent my best man to retrieve them, they should be back with us within the hour.”

Varric manages a smile. “You’re a lifesaver, Bran. Thank you.” There is a sincerity behind those words that he cannot stress enough - he is quite certain he would not be nearly half the man he is today without Seneschal Cavin at his side.

He must understand it, at least, because his smile softens as he nods. “Always, ser.”

“Don’t call me that when I’m being sincere.”

He chuckles as he leaves another handful of papers on the desk. “Here. These needed filing last week, you know.”

Varric laughs. “Of course they did.”

He turns to leave, but stops halfway to the door. “Oh, one more thing - your colours. You have a fitting at three. Just to make sure the fit is perfect, you understand.”

He pulls a face, grabbing at the papers. “Three o’clock. Great.”

Bran leaves, and Varric takes a deep breath before throwing himself into another distraction.

She was coming back. Of _course_ she was coming back. Now, these permits…

 

 

As the carriage jostles her about, Cassandra wonders, not for the first time, if she’s made the right choice. The young woman who had been tasked with tailing her around Kirkwall since her semi-permanent move to the city looks green in the seat across from her, while Cassandra keeps her arms folded over her chest. She had agreed to meet a certain Nevarran diplomat halfway between her homeland and the Free Marches, but a small seed of doubt had long since been planted, not long after their first handful of correspondences a month prior.

 _I certainly have the thing_ , he’d written. _No clue as to how or why. My wife claims it was won in an auction from your late uncle’s estate. It is a pity that he passed on, he was a dear friend to us._ That had been news to Cassandra. Not that her uncle was dead - she’d been informed of that some months before - but rather, that he’d had any friends at all. Her childhood with him had been not only decidedly glum, but friendless, from her end and his own.

Varric had kindly offered to ride with her to his funeral in the capital, but the very thought made bile rise in her throat. She would not allow her future husband to see her family in the midsts of one of their most dismal traditions. Cassandra did not think he owned a stitch of black clothing, and refused to have any made for him.

 _Maker_ , she thinks, as another pothole seems to materialize in front of the carriage. _Let him have it. Let this not have been in vain._

 

* * *

 

“My lady.” The servant steps gingerly down from the carriage, glancing around. “Where...are we?”

“In Wildervale,” the carriage driver says, looking down at them both. “Dismal place.”

“Indeed.” Cassandra glances about, but the people she sees are most certainly Marchers - she’d learned from the start that they each had a certain air and look about them. On the streets, Varric blended perfectly, his race forgotten, though these people were certainly different from those she’d met in Kirkwall. Fractured nationalism was a foreign concept to her - she’d have to study it further.

“Is he...here?” Her servant, a girl of no more than eighteen and called Eleanor, tugs at her skirts. “I should think the Viscount would be expecting us back by now.”

“The Viscount is perfectly aware of my location,” Cassandra says coolly. “I left a note.”  
“Ah. The Lady does think of everything.”

“Well.” Cassandra sighs, thinking of the situation at hand. “Not always.”

They make their way toward a pub at the center of town. The driver suspects that if the diplomat is to meet them anywhere, it will be here. “And we’ll spot ‘em,” he adds. “You Nevarrans stick out like weeds.” Cassandra raises a brow. “Pardon me, ma’am.” He ducks his head and goes to fetch a bottle of wine and some glasses. Eleanor declines, fidgeting in her spot, and apparently trying to take up as little room as possible.

“Straighten your back,” Cassandra says. “If you are trying to keep any of them from noticing you, then you must appear as if you are not afraid.”

Eleanor blinks. “But I am afraid.”

“I know. Which is why you must look as if you are not.”

The driver grunts. “Behind you, in the door.”

Cassandra angles herself toward the front of the pub, and sure enough, he is there - tall, like so many of her people, smartly dressed and in grey. Hardly anyone notices him. Cassandra rises, and her entourage follows her to meet him.

“Cassandra Pentaghast.”

She smiles. “Lord van Achter. It is good to see you again.”

“It has been some time. We were children, were we not?” Cassandra nods, and he extends an arm. “Shall we walk? The package is in my carriage.” Cassandra agrees, walking with him out of the pub. Her driver and Eleanor follow close behind. “I must say, I was surprised when I learned of your engagement. Even more so when you wrote to me.”

“It took some time to find out who might have acquired the chest.”

“A prize in and of itself. Your family crest is still present, and still adorned with jewels, I might add. But, no matter. I have the thing, though I do not see why you insist on taking it.”

“Sentiment,” she says idly. “What is the reaction, then, to my engagement?”

“You mean among the nobility you so quickly scorned?” He chuckles. “Surprise. Your cousins are in a tizzy over it. Once you marry, you’ll be eligible to inherit your uncle’s money. It is still tied up in negotiations.”

“Greta and her sister have not married?”

“They have, but to poor suitors. Your uncle was displeased, and the fortune is locked until they have sufficient titles and land to earn it. Marrying a Viscount makes you...more eligible than they.”

Cassandra frowns. She had not thought of that, nor had she thought any of her uncle’s wealth could be hers. But, for the time, it doesn’t matter. They stop in front of the carriage and van Achter opens the door. “Here.” He presses a wooden box into her hands. “My wife inspected it, and had some of it repaired. There are some of us in Nevarra who are pleased that you still live, Cassandra. Try not to forget that.”

 

* * *

 

Eleanor is a different girl once they are on the road again, the parcel in hand. “Oh, my lady, what _is_ it?”

“Something very important,” Cassandra says quietly. “Shall I open it?”

“Oh, _yes_ , please!” Eleanor clears her throat. “I mean, if it would please the lady.”

“That will be quite enough of that nonsense,” Cassandra says, and pries open the lid of the box.

Eleanor gasps.

“My...my lady. It is _beautiful._ ”

Between them, a dress of the creamiest ivory one could image falls, the chest of it covered in velvet the color of red wine. It is as lovely as Cassandra remembers.

“Was this...your mother’s?”

“Yes. She wore it when she married my father. It was kept in a cedar chest in our home. My uncle took the chest, but I suppose no one cared for it after he died.” Cassandra runs her hands over the fabric. “I swore that I would not marry in a dress, but now I...I cannot remember _why._ ”

Eleanor sighs. “If I had a dress as beautiful as this, I would wear it every day.” Then: “The Viscount will be so pleased to see you in it, my lady. That I am sure of.”

“One certainly hopes,” Cassandra says, and carefully places the dress back into the box.

 

* * *

 

“ _You left without informing me, or Bran, or anyone of where you were going, and you were gone for two days! We are getting married within the week, Cassandra Allegra Portia Calo--_ ”

Cassandra puts a hand over Varric’s mouth, and then replaces it with her lips. “I did tell you where I was going, my love. I wrote you a note.”

“You didn’t.”

“So I am a liar then?” she asks, setting the box on the desk in their bedroom. Varric sputters, trying to muster up something to say in response. Cassandra turns to Eleanor, who stands, petrified, in the open door of the room. “Please have someone come to draw a bath. And tell them that you will have one as well, my dear. You were a wonderful traveling companion.”

“M-my lady.” The girl curtsies and rushes out, shutting the door behind her.

Varric _fumes._ “Are you honestly going to pretend that this isn’t a big deal?”

“No.” Cassandra settles onto the edge of the bed to tug off her boots. “It is unfortunate that you did not find the note, but I was on the move the entire time. If you’d had a clearer mind, you’d have thought to send Countess along looking for me. She would have known.”

“I...didn’t think of that,” he admits, and sits, dejected, in the desk chair. “I knew you’d come back, of course. It’s just...this isn’t the first time, Seeker. For...being engaged, or having the woman I love leave me behind with just a promise…”

Cassandra goes to him. On her knees, she takes his hands in hers and kisses the open palms, resting her forehead in his lap. “My love.”

“Cassandra--”

“I will _never_ leave you. You have my heart and my word. How could I ever, when so much of me is right _here_?” She places her hand over his chest. “You asked me to be your wife, and I will not go back on my word.”

He smiles. “I know that, Seeker.”

“You will see why I left,” she says, and rises to kiss him. “Now right yourself, future husband of mine. It will not do for the staff to see their Viscount weeping like an infant in a chair.”

 

 

The courtyard is quiet - a strange sort of peace, given how busy the rest of the Keep was. Varric sits amongst the sprouting peonies and geraniums that Daisy had planted with him, and smiles as he adjusts his sporran for the fourth time that morning.

“I’m getting married.”

The words softly echo, and his smile widens.

“Yeah, I can't quite believe it either. You'd like her, you know. Probably gang up on me, and I'd take it. She'd like that. Someone else who doesn't buy my bullshit. You'd get on a little _too_ well, actually.” He chuckles. “Especially given she had a crush on you once. Best not risk it, eh, pal?”

The breeze is slight, barely moving the greenery around him. The crown spins in his hands, his fingers still quick.

“I wish you could see me. See what I've become. Oh, sure, you'd crack a few jokes, but…” He stops, swallowing. “I'm _doing_ it, Hawke. I'm really doing it. Just like you always said I could.”

The sun is gentle, warming his skin.

“Thank you.” It is a whisper, and it is a goodbye in its way, and Varric lets it hang in the air for a long moment. Today was about the next step, and though he still looked back, he could not think of a better way to honour the man than to move forward.

Bran appears in the doorway, running a comb through his hair. “Alright?” he asks.

“Yeah. Just taking in the air.”

Bran smiles, because he knows better than to say what he thinks - Varric has heard it all before anyway, that Hawke would have been proud. It was true, he supposes now, but it was still strange to hear aloud.

“Time to go?”

“Yes - oh, Varric, come on. Where is your _jabot_?”

He pulls a face as he stands, the crown dangling from his fingers. “I am not wearing _lace_ , Bran. I have a perfectly acceptable chest of hair -”

“It is _traditional_ -”

“I agreed to the _crown_ , not to the frills -”

The wind picks up suddenly, a warm rush eddying around Varric and ruffling his hair before dropping as suddenly as it came. He grins, looking up to the sky.

_Thanks, buddy._

 

* * *

 

The Chantry is packed, and Varric spends a little time greeting the many faces he recognises, from local wonders to distant friends. He is invigorated by their cheer, encouraged by their smiles. As he meets Bran’s eyes, he cannot help but smile. Truly, it was a wondrous day.

He laughs at the sight of the Chargers crammed in at the back of the building, offering a wave as the Iron Bull laughs his booming laugh. Even from here, he can see fresh scars, and resolves to find a moment later to get the stories to match. Still, it is heartening that they made it. From his vantage-point at the front, he can spot many of the Inquisition’s old companions - Sera, somehow persuaded into clothes that were not plaid, talks animatedly with Rainier, who looks a lot less… beardy. And closer to the front, Josephine naturally looks radient as she entertains the guests from the Imperium - his responsibilities had grown, but Dorian still held conversations like he was holding court, and Maevaris catches his eye and winks.

Across the aisle, a man he recognises as Duke Cyril offers him a wry smile and a short nod of the head - concession, he thinks, to a victory. _Orlesians_ , he thinks darkly, offering his own smile back.

Bran nudges him.

“Eyes forward. It’s almost time.”

Varric swallows, turning away from the crowd to face the altar. “Shit.”

“ _Varric_.”

“Sorry!” He smiles slightly. “Just… big day.”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet.” Bran’s face falls. “Varric, don’t -”

“No! Maker, never. I just… it’s _here_ ,” he says with a wide smile. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long. Almost thought it wouldn't, that she'd change her mind or -”

“She's here.” Bran cranes his neck to see.

“Your faith, Viscount, will always be rewarded.” Mother Clarice smiles warmly at him - and then her eyes shift, widening slightly.

“Oh,” says Bran in a hushed voice. “Oh, _Varric._ She looks…”

“I want to turn around. I want to see her.”

“Yes. Yes, you really do.”

He takes a deep breath, turning to face her -

 _Oh_.

Cassandra is wearing a dress - and not just a dress, but the most flattering divine dress he has ever seen. Cream and crushed red, a smooth flush of fabric skirting the floor with every slow step towards him. Atop her head, the most delicate flowers lovingly shaped into a crown, her usual plait left to trail down over her shoulder, and the most joyous smile gracing her lips.

He loved her before now, but truly in this moment he is blessed by her.

She comes to meet him, and he has to restrain himself from kissing her there and then.

“Hello,” she whispers, and he clears his throat.

“Hi. Wow. You, ah… Cassandra, you…” His eyes prickle, and he swallows again. “You're _beautiful_. Where did you find this?”

“It was my mother’s,” she says softly. “Just as you have your colours, I could bear no other dress today.”

He smiles. “I love you, you know.”

She chuckles, reaching for his hand and squeezing it gently. “And I love you.” And then her smile twists slightly. “And I am glad you did not wear that ridiculous lace thing, my love.”

He grins, despite Bran’s audible sigh, and together they stand before the Revered Mother, before their friends, before the Maker and His Bride, and begin the ceremony.

 

* * *

 

The party is more restrained than Varric would like, but everyone is happy and smiling and his heart is almost painfully full. He would tell a few good stories from the night, he already knew that much.

Cassandra is resplendent as their friends flock to her, equally stunned at the sight of her in a dress. Josephine, it appears, has not stopped crying since the ceremony, and Cullen stands awkwardly at her side as she clutches Cassandra’s sleeve and sobs her gratitude.

“Varric.”

He turns, offering a slight bow. “Inquisitor.”

“Not sure you can call me that anymore.”

“Old habits die hard, you know me. Glad you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t have missed this for the world. My two favourite people, madly in love. You couldn’t have written it better, old friend.”

Varric chuckles. “I did _try_ ,” he admits, “but she argued with my descriptions and told me to rewrite the ending six times.”

“Sounds like her.”

“Yeah. Perfect, really.” He sighs, smiling, and is rewarded with a laugh.

“I’m happy for you two. You’ve earned it, truly.”

“Thanks. Hey, what about -”

“Inquisitor!” Bull booms from across the room, and they offer an apologetic smile.

“Duty calls. Nice kilt, by the way.”

Varric watches them go, shaking his head slightly, before heading over to the tables where his seneschal sits aloof.

“Varric!” Bran, bless his boots, is already into his cups. “My good ser!”

“Maybe you should put that cup down, Bran.” He eases it from the man's fingers carefully. “Nice speech.”

“Oh, you would have done it better. _Hawke_ would have done it better.”

“Not true. He wasn't great with words.”

“Pssssh.” The noise is messy from his lips. “Should have been him. I know I'm not him.”

“Bran -”

“I just wanted to do a good job for you. You're a good boss, you know -”

“ _Bran_. Look at me.” He smiles slightly. “I had the right man standing up there with me, alright? It couldn’t have been anyone else, not even if I could turn back time. I had my _best_ friend with me.”

Bran swallows. “Varric -”

“Much as I'll deny it when we're back in the office,” he adds, and they laugh as Bran leans against him

“You're a good man, Varric. You _are_.”

“People keep telling me.”

“And she's a good woman.”

Varrics eyes find her with ease, and he grins. “That she is.”

“You deserve this,” says Bran. “You deserve all of it. Don't let _anyone_ tell you diff-” He hiccups. “-frent.”

“I'll try to bear that in mind.”

“Where's my drink gone?”

Varric sighs, patting his shoulder. “No idea.”

They watch as Cassandra approaches, her smile unwavering and bright. Varric rather fancies that she has never smiled so much in her life - of course, he is sure the same could be said for him.

Standing above him, she raises an eyebrow at the state of Bran, before addressing him. “Husband of mine, are you well?”

His lips press gently against her knuckles. “All the better for your presence, wife.”

Bran sighs deeply. “Lovely,” he says, hiccuping again. “You’re both just _lovely_.”

“I think Bran’s a bit tired.”

“I think Bran is a bit drunk,” corrects Cassandra.

“That too. I’m sure his assistant will send him to bed in short order.”

“M’fine,” protests the man, but the slur rather ruins the effect. Varric laughs, standing to meet his wife.

“He’ll be fine. I might use my loud voice tomorrow, though.”

“You are a cruel viscount,” she laughs.

“Maybe.” He smiles up at her. “Dance with me.”

Cassandra’s eyes soften. “Always,” she replies, fingers curling around his as he stands, leading her to the space where the minstrels play.

 

 

Bastion is a two days ride from Kirkwall, but they somehow make it in less. Cassandra blames the carriage driver, and his complete and utter disregard for safety, and possibly the bribe slipped to him by a certain Viscount. She cannot be completely sure. What she knows is that they leave the city painfully early the morning after their wedding, and she sleeps most of the way. When she finally opens her eyes, her head is in her husband’s lap, and he is doing paperwork on her back.

“Varric.”

“Two seconds.”

Cassandra yawns, closing her eyes again. She must drift off, for when she is something close to conscious once more, Varric is also asleep, his hand resting idly at her waist, thumb ghosting under the hem of her tunic.

She is struck by how blessed she is, and it is enough to make her eyes burn.

_Should you wish to thank someone specifically, it would be my cousin Maurine, who inherited this house from her mother-in-law, who passed away some months ago. It receives fairly continuous use, so you will find it fully staffed and quite comfortable, I assure you._

Cassandra sets down the note sent ahead by Josephine and smiles. The footman brings in their meager bags, and retreats back outside, chatting idly with the driver and gazing out at the sea. It is, she thinks, quite a lovely view. Through the window, she watches as Varric gives them each half of what they’re owed for transporting them, and enough to pay for room, board, and drinks in the city.

“My lady?” Cassandra turns to find a man standing with the rest of in front of her, and she remembers that, in a way, she is currently the lady of the house. The thought makes her blush, just under her collar. “Shall I make introductions?”

“Certainly.” Cassandra smiles as she is introduced to the servants who keep the estate running. Varric will not remember any of their names, so she must take on the task herself.

The man apparently in charge, called Garner, gives a small bow. “Dinner will be served in an hour, my lady. Should we expect any additional guests, or will it be only you and your husband?”

“My…” Cassandra feels a quick warmth spread throughout. “Yes. Only the two of us.”

“Excellent. I will inform the kitchen staff.” He dismisses the rest and Cassandra is left alone in the grand foyer of the house, waiting for Varric to return.

He comes in, stamping the mud off his boots and grumbling about poor weather – Cassandra spots clouds behind him threatening to spill over, but she doesn’t think a single great spot could ruin any of this.

“I’m starved,” Varric mutters, and pulls her down to kiss him. “When do we eat?”

“In an hour,” she says.

“Look at that, a whole hour to kill.” With a quick twist, he hauls her up in his arms, and Cassandra screeches.

“ _Varric!_ ”

“Come on, we didn’t come all this way to sit around and wait on _soup_ , Seeker.” He takes a step forward, and then stops. “Ah. Where _is_ the bedroom?” he asks, and Cassandra dissolves into laughter.

It takes them almost the entire hour to _find_ their room, largely because they are caught up in exploring the house that is truthfully too grand for either of their tastes – and because Varric continually insists on trapping her against the wall, dragging out kiss after kiss, moan after moan, and sliding his hand down the front of her breeches, sending her over the edge almost a dozen times.

By the time they find their room, it is dinner, and they are both _famished._

 

* * *

 

“I could live like this. Every so often.” Varric kicks off his boots and lays flat on the bed. Cassandra sits at the vanity, undoing the plait around her head and brushing it, watching him in the mirror.

She blinks. _The mirror._

“Varric.”

“Hmm?”

“Where…where did this come from?”

“Where did what come from?” He sits up, and immediately spots it. “Oh. You mean that.” He stands and crosses the room to her, looking at their reflection in the thing. It is… _grand_ , she thinks. Larger than hers that was broken in Val Royeaux. “Serault,” he says, leaning down and kissing her neck. “Took a while to get it, but by the time it was finished, I knew we were getting married. Knew where we’d go after.”

“You had it brought here.”

“I did.”

“For _us._ ”

“Yeah,” he says, angling her face so that he can look into her eyes. “For us, Cassandra.”

She practically tackles him to the floor in a flurry of lips and hands. They stumble back, caught up in one another has fingers fumble with wholly unnecessary pieces of clothing, and shed them one by one, abandoning them on the floor.

“You remembered,” she says, unable to fully comprehend how much she is loved, in this moment.

Varric pulls back, looking up at her. “I remember everything you’ve written to me. I remember every little thing you desired, because I wanted to be able to give it to you. You wanted a mirror. And you wanted to _see us._ So that’s what we’ll do.” He grins, pulling her close and urging her toward the bed. “You’re going to watch yourself as I make you come apart. You’re going to see every moment of it, because that’s what you wanted.”

“Oh, my _love_ —”

Varric groans, finally shucking off the last of his clothes and crawling onto the bed after her. Bared before him, Cassandra has never felt as desired, as loved, as _beautiful_ as she does in this moment. “My wife,” he murmurs, kissing her shoulder. “Turn around, look at yourself.”

Cassandra does. The fire in the hearth casts a warm glow on her skin.

“Look at _us_ ,” she says, and feels his arm snake around her waist, fingers twisting together with her own. “We are one, now.”

“Does it please you?” he asks, one hand trailing between her legs, testing the wetness there. Cassandra moans.

“It _does_. Oh, my love, it does.” She turns her head to look at him and smiles. “And does it please you, husband?”

Varric rests his forehead against her shoulder. “Yeah,” he says weakly. “It, uh, it pleases me. But that right there—”

“Husband?”

“ _Yeah._ ”

Cassandra laughs. “We have waited a long time for this, haven’t we?”

“We have.”

She closes her eyes, gripping his hand tight in her own. “I want you inside of me, Varric. I want to _see_ —” She can feel him, hard against her back, feel the way he trembles in anticipation against her. She won’t deprive him of his need any longer, and she is just as desperate. “Now, my love, _please._ ”

Varric’s teeth drag over her shoulder, stifling his moan as he takes himself in his hand, as Cassandra raises herself up and he guides himself slowly inside her.

It is novel to watch her own expression change as he makes love to her. There is no support except for him, braced against her back, one arm wrapped firmly around her waist, the other gripping her arm. Cassandra struggles, at first, to focus on their reflections, but after a while it is hard not to. Before, she had only idly imagined what they might looked like, how they might fit together. Now, she can _see it_ , and it is more beautiful than any fantasy. Perhaps it is the near-continuous afterglow of their wedding, she cannot be sure. What she knows is she can feel him as well as she can see him, and the two sensations together are more than enough to push her close to the edge.

“You see?” Varric’s voice startles her from her own thoughts. “This is what you look like. This is what _I_ see. Ever since that first time, at Halamshiral—” He stops, thrusts _hard_ , and hold himself inside her. Cassandra cries out. She hardly recognizes the noises spilling from her mouth. They have never made love this way before. “Every _single_ time, I fall more in love with you.”

“ _Move._ ”

“Like this?” He tightens his grip, using both hands to raise and lower her on his cock. Cassandra gasps, nodding. “You want more, then?”

“ _Yes_ —” Varric grunts, pulling out of her and urging her onto her hands and knees. “Oh, yes, yes like that.”

“Good.” He kisses the small of her back before thrusting into her again, and that is all she needs. It takes the barest brush of her fingers against her clit for her to come, and slams himself into her only a few more times before he falls after her, shouting her name as he does.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra isn’t sure when she falls asleep after all of that. She knows that she does, and she wakes a handful of times to find Varric snoring beside her. Eventually, she becomes aware that they have slept well past their usual time, but she realizes smugly that they have nowhere to be. And, frankly, she would be happy spending their entire week just like this.

This is, of course, when Varric’s stomach growls so angrily that it wakes him up.

“‘time is it?” he mumbles, and rolls over, planting his lips on her neck.

“Late, for us.”

“Before eight, I suspect.”

“One could assume.” Cassandra sighs as his hand roams down her side, giving her rump a firm squeeze before he finally opens his eyes.

“You know, I had the craziest dream last night.”

Cassandra raises a brow. “I have heard this line before.”

“Humor me, wife.”

She smiles. “Very well.”

Varric shifts, sitting up on his elbow. “Like I was saying. I had this dream that I met this beautiful warrior princess, who was obviously out of my league, but I charmed her pants off. Figuratively, and literally, of course. Then I talked her into marrying me.”

“How nice for you.”

“Yeah,” he adds. “And nothing went wrong and no one went missing and our rings stayed exactly where they were supposed to—”

“ _The rings went missing?_ ”

He frowns. “My _fiance_ went missing.”

“We are not discussing this any further.”

“Later, then,” he says, and ducks under the covers to wish her a proper good morning.

 

* * *

 

In true form, Varric once again proves himself incapable of restraint, and they nearly scandalize the gardening staff on an afternoon stroll of the grounds.

“I have it on good authority that you enjoy almost being caught,” he grumbles, from his rather dubious position from the ground.

Cassandra flushes. “It was only a few times.”

He ticks them off: “Behind the tapestry, in my office, under my desk, on the carriage ride to Starkhaven—”

“You would not have enjoyed the ride there otherwise,” she mutters, and tries to push herself off of him. He grabs her hips and pulls her down into a kiss. She sighs. “It is nearly dinner. We are entertaining the neighbors.”

“Why did I agree to that?”

“Because they are wealthy philanthropists and you are the Viscount of a city that still needs _roads_ ,” she says, and kisses his forehead. “We may romp in the gardens when we return home.” Varric _beams._ “What?”

“Nothing. You just...called it home.”

Cassandra brushes the dirt from her knees and smiles, her cheeks flushed pink. “It is where you are, my love. And, so. It is home. Come along, we must be appropriate hosts.” She extends her hand and pulls him up.

“I hate being appropriate,” he says bitterly.

“You will be rewarded for it later. I promise.”

 

* * *

 

She is surprised, later, how easy it is to fall into a slow routine. They bathe, distractedly, and change, distractedly, but eventually they settle in the armchairs by the fire to read. It is decidedly domestic. Cassandra is rather pleased.

Of course, later, it is anything but. They forgo the mirror and she rides him, slowly, with great care, watching as he falls apart under her touch. She will help him see it himself, sometime soon. But, for now, she is content with this. When they are spent, she curls herself against him, resting her hand on his chest and toying with her ring.

“With this ring, I give you my promise, that from this day forward, you shall not walk alone.” She feels him move against her, and looks up to find him watching her, lips curled into a smile. “May my heart be your shelter, and my arms be your home.”

He kisses her forehead. “May Andraste bless you always, and may we talk together through all things. May you feel deeply loved, for indeed you are.”

“May you always see your innocence in my eyes. I give you my heart. I have no greater gift to give.”

He threads his fingers through her own, their rings a gentle pair in the soft light of the fire. “I promise I shall _always_ do my best.”

“I feel so honored to call you my husband. I feel so pleased to call you mine. May we feel this joy forever. I thank the Maker.” She pushes herself up and kisses him. “I thank you,” she murmurs. “And I love you.”

“I thank _you_ ,” he says after her. “And I love you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> for your reference:  
> [varric's wedding garb](http://www.blacktieguide.com/Supplemental/Scottish.htm)  
> [cassandra's wedding dress](http://www.vendettacouture.com/img/clothing/1024/lily012-03_009a-1024.jpg)  
> [edited non-denominational vows](https://www.theknot.com/content/nondenominational-wedding-vows)


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